


The Name I Gave You

by Cherimola



Category: As the World Turns
Genre: AU, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherimola/pseuds/Cherimola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I honestly didn’t think he’d be here.  He lives in <i>Brooklyn</i>.  Well...as far as I know.”</p><p>“Oh, okay, peachy, so then I just forced you to confront your festering pain.  Seeing the ex for the first time was merely a bonus.  Wait, Luke, is <i>he</i> the reason you haven’t dated anyone since I’ve known you?  Are we talking <i>that</i> amount pain?”</p><p>“It’s not your fault—”</p><p>“Oh no, it’s totally your fault, you martyr.  And the only way you can make it up to me is by spilling everything.  And it better be <i>epic</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Name I Gave You

**Author's Note:**

> The character of Dilen is an AU version of Casey Hughes (and presented as tribute to esmereldagrace).

“You realize you’re going to blow our cover.”

Luke fumbled his drink. “What?”

“It’s kinda key that mystery diners not be memorable. At the very least they should try not to give off a hunted-by-the-law vibe.”

“I’m—what? I—I’m not—”

“Dude. Even _I’m_ starting to wonder if you have a bomb under that shirt. You're acting like this is your last, worst day on Earth.”

“Oh, I—I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Says the most miserable-looking person in the greatest city in the world. Seriously, _what_ is going on?”

Luke rubbed the side of his neck.

“’Cause I already know it has something to do with that guy at the bar you’ve spent all night not looking at. So if you don’t want me to go over there and ask him—”

“Oh God, no! Look, Dilen...I’m...it’s—”

“Listen, dude, we don’t have to stay.”

“What, no—I...I’m fine.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculously clear. I’m just saying it’s no big deal if you wanna bail.”

“No, it is — I know it doesn’t look good if you cancel.”

“Whatever, I’m, like, super-shopper. My rep can take the hit.”

“No, really, it’s okay. So, how long has it been since we ordered? Have you counted yet? Do you need to check the restroom?”

“Yeah, you know, I can’t really get a good look at the bar from here. I’m just gonna pop over for a sec to get an accurate count.”

Luke grabbed Dilen’s wrist. “Wait, wait, okay—okay.” Luke let go, watching as his own hands slid around the glass, fingers interleaving. “He...we...it didn’t end well.”

“Didn’t see _that_ coming. How long ago?”

“Seven months.”

“And you’re still like this when you see him?”

“This, um...it’s the first time.”

“Wait, you mean the first time’s he’s been in here?”

“No...it’s the first time I’ve been back.”

“In seven months? But this is right across the street from your apartment. I figured you come in here all the time.”

“I—yeah. I used to.” 

“No, oh no no no—you mean he got this place in the divorce? Why didn’t you just say something? Jesus, no wonder it took you so long to find a ‘free night’ to come here.” 

“No, this isn’t...it’s not—I honestly didn’t think he’d be here. He lives in _Brooklyn_. Well...as far as I know.”

“Oh, okay, peachy, so then I just forced you to confront your festering pain. Seeing the ex for the first time was merely a bonus. Wait, is _he_ the reason you haven’t dated anyone since I’ve known you? Are we talking _that_ amount pain?”

“Dilen, it’s not your fault—”

“Oh no, it’s totally your fault, you martyr. And the only way you can make it up to me is by spilling everything. And it better be _epic_. So, go: how did it start, where did you meet?”

Luke stopped squeezing the glass long enough to take a sip of honeyed liquor. “You’ll never guess.”

“ _Dude_ , you’re killing me. Fine, so what was it, karaoke night? It was your Robyn, wasn’t it? He was powerless.”

Luke almost smiled. “Yankees game. He was the one in the Red Sox cap.”

“Holy shit, and you went anywhere near that? Fucking _bakwaas_ , were you _looking_ to be collateral damage? Then again, if he had a dick to go with those balls—too soon? Too soon.”

“Yeah, well, that pretty much summed him up. The _hat_ , Dilen. He never seemed to care what anyone thought. He was just...abrasive and arrogant—”

“And that did it for you?”

“And brilliant and funny and fearless.”

“Shame he wasn’t hot.”

“Yeah...that may have had something to do with my letting him buy me a drink. After that it was just...easy. God, he was so clever. That man could banter me into a carnal fugue state. But even when we weren’t talking...I know it sounds—but really, we could just be sitting on the sofa, watching something, his arms...we didn’t even have to be, you know...and, I mean, we _weren’t_ —I’d warned him that I’d just gotten out of a relationship — you know, the film student? — and that I wasn’t even close to being ready for anything. But he didn’t care, it was like he just wanted to know me, like I was one of the few people he’d met who was worth his time. And he didn’t seem to care that I was younger, or only a student—”

“Uh, _Ph.D._ student.”

“But he was a _neurosurgeon_. At least—anyway, we just...it was good. We fit. After a while, I even got to the point where—” Luke’s eyes, voice, dropped. “I thought I’d finally found him.”

“Oh, come on, man, it wasn’t supposed to be _actually_ epic. I’m gonna wanna smack this guy, aren’t I? I am totally never going to be able to mystery dine in this establishment again. Good thing for him I don’t have my cricket bat. So, he cheated, yeah? He’s a fucking cheater.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Well, I mean—that wasn’t the problem.”

“Okay, well, I know it wasn’t that he lost interest, ’cause dude’s been pretty fixated on you all night.”

 _Don’t look_. “Yeah, well—he could certainly be intense when he wanted to.”

“Wait, he didn’t—did he get physical?”

“What? No! No, he never—he wasn’t like that at all. He was...with me he was always—” Luke rubbed his neck again.

“Dude. You really fell for him.”

Luke stared at the glass.

“And seeing as he’s here at your _special place_ being all _intense_ , I’m pretty lost as to why you’re not currently having each other’s babies.”

Luke finished his drink. “Remember that NYU professor who was part of the international ivory-smuggling ring?”

“Huh? Oh, right, that, uh, elephant-genetics guy. Turned out to be in bed with some kind of ivory mafia.”

“He was my advisor.”

“Get the fuck out. I thought you did monkey poo.”

“Ape. And that’s what I do _now_.”

“Get. The fuck. Out. And you seriously had no idea?”

“None. I hadn't even completely believed it until I saw it on The Daily Show. But, because I was working on his project, for a while the FBI thought I might be involved.”

“I’m sorry, but this has taken an unexpectedly awesome turn. So, you were, what, a person of interest? With that face? I mean, come on, you’re like a freaking cherub, what with the blond and the dimples—and the Feds honestly thought you were working with African gangsters? Did they bug your office? Did they bust your balls? Wait, did they bust _his_ balls? Holy shit, did _he_ think you were guilty? No, no—tell me he did _not_ try to turn you in. Not awesome. Oh my God, so not awesome. This story better not end with his going to the FBI.”

Luke’s lips shifted into an abstraction of a smile. But the symmetry was off, the edges jagged. “He didn’t have to. He _was_ the FBI.”

A woman bearing burgers approached and placed the plates on the table. Neither man noticed.

“He...what? I mean... _what_? No, wait, I thought he was a neurosurgeon?”

“Me too. Pretty impressive cover. Google-proof and everything.”

“So, you mean...but that...I can’t even—hold up, hold up, are you seriously telling me that they have special _gay_ undercover agents for this sort of thing?”

“Ah, but Dilen, that’s the best part.” The not-smile twisted into negative space. “Because I did see him one more time, when I was down at the courthouse for the Grand Jury. I went to Chinatown for lunch—”

“Soup dumplings.”

“Right, and when I got there—well, I saw him eating with someone he was clearly...involved with.”

“Fucking cheater!”

“A woman.”

“Fucking— _what_?”

“Yup.” Luke tried to swallow the break in his voice. “He wasn’t even gay.” 

Dilen stood. “We’re leaving.”

“Dilen, no—we can’t...you have to—shit, we forgot to note the time—”

“Dude. _We’re leaving_.” Dilen tossed two bills on the table. “Luke, please.” He lifted his hand. “Let’s go.”

Luke nodded and stood, taking it. He noticed his own was shaking.

Luke didn’t look back, not as he crossed by the bar, not when he reached the exit. Not until he was on the other side, as the heavy wooden door was swinging closed, the stained-glass inset angled to refract instead of reflect. Only then did he look.

And saw he was being watched in return.

______________________________________________

_“You are so lucky you met me.”_

_“Because I picked_ Aliens?” 

_“Because you picked_ Aliens _as your **romantic movie** selection. Something obviously went tragically wrong along the way. You, my dearest doctor, need a full course on remedial romance. Luckily, I get excellent teaching evaluations.”_

_“Hey now, subtle it may be, but Sigourney and that space marine have a fully realized romantic arc. He practically proposes at one point. And really, is there anything more romantic than a murder-suicide pact?”_

_“I...I don’t even know where to—”_

_“Not to mention that whole non-traditional-family situation implied at the end—”_

_“What? You mean with a gay couple?”_

_“Well, uh...no...with the two of them and that little shrieking girl. They’re the only humans left alive, ergo, happily ever after.”_

_“I’m thinking it might have to be a two-semester course.”_

_“And come on, all those marines—the lesbians—really, take your homoerotic pick.”_

_“There are lesbians?”_

_“Luke, it’s sounding like you haven’t seen this movie.”_

_“Well, I mean, parts—”_

_“Yeah, I’m sorry, this is where I’m going to have to call it. I’m afraid the age difference has finally proven to be fatal. Time of death—”_

_“Oh, come on, I’m sure there are plenty of your fellow elderly folk who haven’t seen it either. Not like it’s a timeless classic.”_

_“Luke. This is the single greatest non-Star-Wars movie of all time. I’m afraid proper appreciation is a deal-breaker.”_

_“Oh, right, because those prequels were such masterpieces.”_

_“There were prequels?”_

_“Huh? Ah, no, sorry, I forgot—you’ve never met a reality you couldn’t bend to your will. Okay, okay, so then how many Alien movies were there?”_

_“Two, obviously.”_

_“Oh, of course. Terminator?”_

_“Two.”_

_“Indiana Jones?”_

_“Two. First and third.”_

_“What? Whatever, you’re just obsessed with going to Petra. Yeah, well, sorry, those are all the olde-timey films I can come up with right now. Just play the stupid movie. I’m sorry, the super-genius, super-romantic movie. I still have to finish that proposal tonight.”_

_“Prepare to be amazed. Amazed and abjectly apologetic. Come here, you’re too far.”_

_He reaches for me. He’s angled against the arm of the sofa; I inch backward until I fit the curve of his body. He rests his chin on my shoulder, his lips against my neck._

_“Wait, I’ve seen the beginning—I don’t remember this part.”_

_He breathes the words into my skin. “This is the special edition.”_

_“Of course it is. Of course you had to pick an extra-long movie tonight.” Not long enough. Never long enough._

_“This is the extra-romantic version — at the end they exchange first names.”_

_“You’re ridiculous.” I tighten my hand around his hand, pressing it against my middle. His warmth lines the length of my back, his lips the epicenter of my awareness, just below my ear. “I can’t believe I wasted a perfectly good summer on you.”_

_“I am a singularly magnificent specimen. Just wait—you’ll appreciate me more in the winter. I’m best served chilled.”_

_I hold my breath. “I dunno, I’m pretty sure I’ll have moved on by then.”_

_I feel his stop as well. His lips stay at their place against my neck. We watch the characters onscreen enter deep space._

_Then, a whisper into my skin: “I won’t have.”_

_I turn in his arms to face him. His eyes are as clear as they’ve ever been._

_There has been enough waiting._

_I kiss him, as easy as always. One hand is over his heart, the other sliding from neck to cheek. He leans into my palm, accepts my tongue. His hands are in my hair, his body canting forward; he pulls me closer by the small of my back, fingers slipping under my shirt. I grind down and in, hips to hips. I listen for the sound, soft and surprised and just a touch broken. I wait for it — for him to shift away. This time, for the first time, I follow. He pulls back, just far enough to meet my eyes. Mine are as clear as they’ve ever been._

_There has been enough waiting._

_There may have been a passing cloud, a dark ribbon winding across the blue. But then his eyes close as I move back in, as he grips me closer, harder, mouths hot and open. So hot — last doubts are incinerated, wounds of the recent past cauterized. The remaining firewalls are finally down. My mouth moves lower as I speed-open shirt buttons, sucking on his Adam’s apple, tonguing the hollow of his throat. I stop at a nipple, adding teeth as my hands work on his belt, leaving the open shirt to hang loose. His hands move from my hair to my arms — pulling, perhaps — but the fuel fires are too fierce to let me register or respond. I’ve waited too long. Have to see what I’ve felt through too much fabric. Have to taste. The scenic route can wait for next time._

_We both gasp as I pull him free; even mostly soft it’s already as large as the fantasy. The rest of his body is at maximum rigidity, his hands at the sides of the sofa, nails impressively close to puncturing microfiber. I don’t waste any more time. My hands on his hips, I take it all into my mouth. I swallow until it fits, savoring the feeling while I still can, lapping the underside with flattened tongue. Too soon it swells past capacity; I suck upward, engaging a hand on the shaft. My eyes are closed, circuits overwhelmed. With the other hand I sift through stiff curls to reach his balls, have to open my eyes to compare with the construct, have to put them in my mouth to make them dance._

_I return to his cock: pop, flutter, hum, blow. I envision my lips through his eyes, pray to the porn gods they deliver — obscenely wet, poison-apple red, absurdly stretched as he grows even harder, burns even hotter. I’m caught at the corner of too many intersecting fictions, intensively constructed over too many weeks, too many possibilities. A forever of futures. I don’t open my eyes, can’t handle the quantum certainty._

_He snaps a frayed thread of a sound that brings me back to a coherent state. I look up. And enter a summer storm, ferocious and knotty, a tumult of pressure systems straining every line of face, neck, arms, chest. I’m blown back. He drags me up, pulls me in, welds us together with heat and force. His hand buries in the back of my head; he breathes open-mouthed into the bend of my neck. I try to hang on, to ride out the unexpected squall, to fathom the driving forces. But I’m too lost in my own vortex. Still clasped to him, I unconsciously begin to undulate my hips, grinding against his trapped cock. I’m spiraling into overload, emergency venting engaged._

_I bite his earlobe as I reach between us. “I need—I need you inside me.”_

_He jerks backward into the sofa arm. I fall forward with him, fumbling to take off my jeans while keeping fingers on his cock, his chest, the trail of hair between. As though through a haze of steam, I see only glimpses — shock, craving, exultation, desolation. Released, my penis snaps upward, painting pre-cum on my skin. He glances down, up._

_“I—I don’t—”_

_“I do.” I bend-twist to one side, reaching under the sofa for a tube and into a pocket of my discarded jeans. “I do.” He doesn’t. I should notice._

_But I’m already pulling my shirt up and off. There’s no time for a show. Later. I toss the condom packet to where it sticks against his damp abdomen. I’m already pushing in slick fingers._

_He hasn’t moved._

_“Look, I’m ready.” I take his hand, catch the tremble as one of his fingers joins mine. “Was doing this before, thinking of you. Always thinking of you.” I rip the packet myself; he unfreezes on a sharp inward breath as I stretch the condom over him. I lift, bracing my hands on his shoulders, my eyes on his eyes. As I lower, pain crystalizes the steam, resolving my focus; I watch him watch me. His expression has coalesced into a steady state of wonder. I can feel it, him, everywhere — on the edge of too big, too much, occupying the whole of me. Taking his face, I kiss his forehead through damp auburn waves, lean my head to his, blink away sweat to keep his blue eyes in almost-focus. I roll as I ride, squeezing, catching his gasps in my mouth. I take all of him in, let him saturate me. Open all the doors. Give him a key._

_He takes it. On a ragged roar he tips me back, presses me deep into firm cushions. The startle fades quickly; I dig my heels against his back, encouraging speed and force with my body, my eyes, my voice. I say his name, the name I know, as a litany. He is silent save for a series of shattering breaths — and his eyes. The eyes are deafening. They sing of revelation, piercing through the hush, pushing meaning into me, willing me to understand, to help him understand. But sensory pathways are overloaded: the sides of his shirt sweeping my skin with each thrust, the inescapable pressure on my prostate. His hand on my neck, a gentleness discordant with the skin-slapping pace, his thumb brushing my bottom lip, the salt of his skin on my tongue as it flicks out to taste. He watches his hand trail downward from my throat, catching in fine hair; in stuttering moves his palm pauses to press flat above my nipple. When his gaze drops lower, his rhythm skips. I lift a hand to the focus of his attention, begin to stroke myself, thrusting up as a jumpstart. So close. Too close — I want to hang on, to extend the connection, to prolong the silent duet until sounds themselves are irrelevant, until words are. Names._

_I let go. Arching, I see only ceiling, my hand squeezing the cocktip as I come. The blast is atomic, minimum safe distance a myth. In my shadow state I dimly feel his fingers tangle with mine as I milk through the spasms. Hoarse cries push past the ringing in my ears, and I feel his full weight cover me. I wish I could have seen every detail of his own chain reaction. Next time._

_Next time he’ll stay. This time he pushes off too soon, whispers fragments of apologies about crushing and movies, doesn’t wait for me to regain reciprocating strength before kissing me too briefly. This time he stops me before I say words half-formed but no less heartfelt._

_The proposal is due tomorrow, after all. And, anyway, there’s no rush. Tomorrow night...tomorrow we’ll take hours._

_We’ve got nothing but time._

“Fuck!” 

Luke dropped his arm on the bed, panting. He lifted his other hand to his face, pressed stiff fingers into his eyes until the lightshow waned, squeezed them against tear ducts as if preemptively plugging a dike.

This had to stop. 

Luke ignored the calls of his livid cock; he wouldn’t finish, not this way. He couldn’t, not if there was going to be anything left of him. There barely was. He couldn’t keep going back—not to _that_ night. Not with what he knew now, with what he'd thought then. Enough with the masochism. And before had been bad enough — now, having seen him, seen him _there_ — (Why?) It was truly dangerous now. He wasn’t playing with matches, he was playing with flamethrowers. No more.

He took up a perfunctory rhythm, closing the doors in his mind, welding them shut. He would focus only on feeling, of the strictly sensation variety. He would never again think of it. Never spend a single moment more on what he’d felt, or what he’d hoped, on what his dreams had been that night, his plans for the next day—

(no, don’t, shit, no, stop stop stop—)

_With every twinge I feel him, every chafe; I take the stairs two at a time. At my floor, I enter the code on autopilot, all non-essential neural pathways dedicated to tonight. Oh yes, do I have plans. Phase one: clothes gone. My apartment is henceforth a no-shirt, no-pants establishment. At the very least I am finally seeing that ass. Phase two: I taste him again. All of him. All the way to the end. Then it’s his turn — in no way complaining about the spectacular kissing, but there wasn’t nearly enough of that mouth on me last night, those lips. Mmm, and then I’ll ride him again. Yes, and from behind...as hard as he—and bent in half, sweet Jesus, his eyes.... Yeah, I need him in me for hours. **Hours**. Holy Darwin, I’m already addicted. Withdrawal symptoms setting in the moment the door closed with him on the wrong side. I can’t even remember why I waited so long. Clearly, there was some kind of brain trauma involved. I'll have to get him to check me out. Ah yes, phase three: finally seeing him in work-related action. I’ll just have to pencil myself into his impossibly busy schedule. Get to watch the interns cower, be inappropriate in a supply closet...be introduced to his partners—_

_I wonder—how soon...okay, not tonight, obviously, but when...when to bring up going raw. Because, **God** , to feel him, really feel him...have him fill me with everything he has, **keep** him inside...I could finally buy that plug—No, self, I am **not** letting the largest cock I have ever seen in real life cloud my judgment. The attached person in general happens to be pretty spectacular. He’s the one. The one I can finally trust._

_He’s it for me._

_“Well, hello, Georgette! And how are you this ridiculously fine summer morning? Seriously, I swear I heard pigeons singing.”_

_She steps in front of me. “Hey, Luke, uh, hold on—we can’t, um—there’s—”_

_“In fact, I think I might have to do a little singing myself. At the very least play a selection of gibbon duets. I’m feeling like advertising my love today. You know, and/or my territory — it is a very desirable office, after all.”_

_“No, really, there’s something you should—”_

_“Hey, what’s going on? Are there people in our office? Ugh, do not tell me the ceiling started raining acid again. No, you know what? Even that isn’t going to—wait, what’s the yellow tape for?” I move past her, angling for a better view. In the office are three men in blue jackets, two of whom are stacking files into boxes. Shit, did everything get wet? Oh, God, not the midterms._

_The third man is lifting a box. The last man I expected to see._

_“Hey!” My smile is so wide it partially obscures my vision. To see him, here, in my department—the two most important parts of my life, the two hemispheres of my world—ooh, is he here to surprise me? Has someone been making a few plans of his own?_

_He is carrying the box across my office; I guess he didn’t hear me. Waving, I call his name. I call it again. He finally stops, turning his head in my direction._

_And looks right through me._

_My hand stills, still raised. My smile dims. He puts the box on my desk, turns away to reach for more files._

_There are three yellow letters on his back._

(Luke’s hand is a blur. Tears gather.)

_You never even knew his real name._

(Luke comes.)

______________________________________________

He’d lasted six days. Six short, winter days. Three staying on his side of Eighth Avenue; two walking past at a reasonably regular pace with only an ephemeral glance; and one paused at the door, watching, shards of rain stinging his face. On the seventh day, he went in. Because, as before, Luke had seen him through beveled glass, tinted in reds and violets, sitting at the end of the bar, surrounded by various stages of a meal. As if he were a regular. Just a regular guy.

And again, as before, the man was alone. Inside, overwarmed air oppressed, settling as a molten mass at the base of Luke’s throat as he stood in the man’s blind spot, staring at the empty stool to one side. It wasn’t too late. Last chance for self-preservation. All possible questions could yield only slippery, toxic answers. The black slush outside was less treacherous than that stool.

Luke sat down. 

Immediately, the man reacted. If only to tense — his fork stuttering on the way to his mouth, the subsequently careful chews. For the next several bites, neither he nor Luke looked away from the television screen above the wall of bottles. There were teams involved, ice. There endeth the extent of either man’s attention. 

A bartender approached, placed a napkin in front of Luke, looked expectant. He had never seen her before. He opened his mouth—wait, what did he drink? Because he definitely needed one. 

He definitely shouldn’t have one.

“Drambuie with lime, ice.” The man’s eyes were still on the screen. “I’m good.”

The man’s voice carried percussive force; Luke felt his skin sting as if slapped. He focused on breathing, on his thumbs worrying the smooth, unyielding wood of the bar. He focused on fighting the tears. Abort. Here be nothing but dragons, with fire for breath and acid for blood. Game over before it’s begun. Fall back. 

The drink came; Luke accepted. He sipped for long seconds. The man had stopped eating, though half of a shepherd’s pie remained.

“Is this—” Luke cleared his throat, tried again. “Is this supposed to be you apologizing?” He watched the man from the side of his vision, saw him swallow before speaking.

“I know that wouldn’t be possible.”

Luke pressed all ten fingers into the grain. “Then why are you here?” 

The man didn’t answer. They both continued to pretend to watch the game. A recorded voice singing mournfully of wind shaking barley served as a soundtrack to assorted ambient bar activities. It wasn’t until Luke risked a look that he realized he’d been rubbing the side of his neck again; the man’s eyes were pinned. The skin there tingled with activating energy, a palpable presence, a tangible memory, the manifest essence of lips against flesh.

Luke dropped his hand. 

He watched the bartender clear the man’s plates, watched her smile at him with the ease of the familiar. 

Luke folded his hands. “How long have you been coming?”

“A while.” Then, at Luke’s look: “A few months.”

“A few _months_? All the way from Brooklyn? That doesn’t even make—oh. Right. Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed I actually knew where you lived.” 

“You do. I do live there.”

“Really? Wait, but then why would you—I mean, all this time...unless—unless you’re on a job. Of course.” Luke felt puffs of dragon breath on the back of his neck, a blistering reminder that no hopes were good hopes. “Terrorist cell in Chelsea, huh? Should I be worried about the security of the supply chain at Whole Foods? Sorry, am I endangering your cover right now?”

“No cover. No more jobs.”

“What?” Surprise momentarily tipped the balance in Luke’s favor in the ongoing tear battle. 

“Well, not undercover. I asked to be...reassigned. Permanent position with the New York field office. Mostly forensics, coordinating with the FBI Lab, some training.” 

“So—then your office is around here?”

“No, it isn't.” The man met Luke’s eyes, held them even through the raucousness of a nearby hockey-related cheer. “And I am a medical doctor. That much was true.”

Luke didn’t look away. “Like being gay?” 

The man flinched. He shifted his hands on the bar, began to trace the perimeter of a wayward coaster. “I’m glad that you’ve been able to—it’s good that you’ve moved on.”

Again, Luke was thrown, this time by the epic wrongness. “I—I don’t—”

“Your boyfriend? The South Asian guy.”

Luke released the breath he’d been holding since opening the door. “Ah, _no_. Just a true friend. There hasn’t been—” Luke cut himself off. That wasn’t need to know.

The man looked down quickly, as if to hide his expression. When he spoke, it was to his hands. “Me neither.”

 _Don’t. Don’t. Don’t do it._ The question escaped, carried on a slender tendril of sound. “Are you a least bi?”

The man looked at Luke, opened his mouth, seemed to be searching for words in a stack of needles. 

Luke’s voice grew, expanding into a tangled thicket of thorns. “Had you ever been with a man?”

The man stopped searching. “No.”

“Well. Quite the honor.”

“Luke—”

“No. You do _not_ get to say my name. Not when I don’t even know yours.”

The man nodded. He turned to face the bar fully, leadenly, resting his weight over bent elbows and folded arms. “So. Whatever you want to know. Ask me.”

A cacophony of questions ricocheted in Luke’s mind like buckshot in a steel drum. _Tell me you’re not that person — the person who looked right through me. Tell me I couldn’t have been **that** wrong. Tell me how I ever trust myself again. Trust someone else. Tell me it was worth it. _

_Tell me that I’m dreaming. Tell me I’m in a coma and you’re sitting by my bedside, grieving, a constant comfort to my parents. Tell me how to stop hating myself._

_Tell me how to stop hating you._

_Tell me how to stop loving you._

Luke slid off the stool and started toward the door. 

“No!” The man reached for the sleeve of Luke’s coat; Luke stumbled backward with the force of the recoil. The man raised his hands in surrender, keeping as still as Luke, breathing as heavily. A dozen heartbeats later, the man slumped backward against the edge of the bar. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Luke failed to keep his voice down. It was as plaintive as the music. “Why couldn’t you trust me? You really—after all those weeks—you really thought I could be guilty?”

“ _No_ , of course not. But that didn’t mean I could—”

“Could what? Stop mindfucking me? Stop pretending that you—Did you think I’d say something to my advisor? That I’d, what, try to warn him or something?”

“No, Lu—I—I knew you would never do that.”

“But—then _why_? Did you think I’d slip? Say something by accident? I wouldn’t have, I would’ve _helped_ you — you still could have gotten as close to him as you needed to.”

“That’s not—that’s—” The man rubbed his face, pressed palms over his eyes. Luke had to lean to hear the whisper: “I couldn’t.” The man dropped his hands but didn’t look up. “If I’d told you—the minute I did...it would’ve been over.”

“What—but I wouldn’t have said anything! You could’ve—seriously, I know how to keep my mouth shut. I’m in _academia_. And I’ve worked in countries where, if the wrong person knows—”

The man shook his head sharply. “ _You_ would have known. That it wasn’t—that I was....”

Luke fell backward, nearly missing his stool. “But wouldn’t that have—I mean, the sooner you told me, the sooner you could have stopped pretending. And then the sooner _I_ could’ve stopped—” His throat ached with swallowed sorrow. “Win-win, right?”

The man shifted to face Luke squarely. His eyes were as clear as they’d ever been. “I didn’t want to stop.”

Luke straightened so quickly the stool seat spun. “No, this—that doesn’t—what are...I mean, you said—you’re not...you'd never—”

“That's right.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying?”

The man’s words were measured. “That, for whatever reason, for me—it stopped being pretend.”

“No— _no_. Now that is just—that’s not even—” Luke turned, frantic, searching the other patrons for blue jackets, for white jackets. He saw only shades of curiosity and annoyance. “That is _bullshit_. You are—you’re—” The tears staged a final assault. “Fuck you. _Fuck_ you. Are you trying to—no, there is _no_ excuse for what you—for that—that night—”

“No, there isn’t. Not for that.” The man dropped his head, his posture an abject arch. “That’s when I knew it was over. There could be no coming back from that.”

“So—then why—”

The man’s eyes lifted. Held. Burned.

Luke felt answering fires ignite. “No. That can’t—because you’re not—”

“Apparently, I am for you.”

“But that—that is _seriously_ not even—”

The man shrugged. “We already knew I was a unique lifeform. But _you_ —your impossibly infinite singularity—that’s what I didn’t see coming.”

Luke reached back for his stool with an unsteady arm, dizzied by whiplash. He needed to leave, to execute a tactical retreat. To process everything when it wasn’t still too hot to the touch. “You could have at least given me your real name.”

“If you even—" The man huffed a laugh-like sound. "You have no idea.”

“Why, is it that bad?”

“No.” He leaned forward, eyes flaring further. “I _wanted_ to give it to you. I _dreamed_ about it. About giving you my name.” 

The crackling intensity disconcerted Luke, as did the sense of something vital being just out of reach.

The man kept leaning, pressing, willing. “I still do. Just like I dream about you giving me yours.”

_Giving me his name._

_His name._

_No, he doesn’t mean—_

Luke allowed the tears to claim victory the moment he saw the kindred sheen in the man’s eyes. He saw other things there, too, recognizable, dragon-slaying things, no processing required. And he saw as well the familiar face of a stranger, a man known and unknown, someone who had, it seemed, been holding on just as tightly, the fraying fibers of last hope rubbing his grip just as raw.

He held out a steady hand. “Hi, I’m Luke.”

The man took his hand. And gave him his name.


End file.
